Songbird: A Novel of the Tudor Court by Karen Heenan
Bess
has the voice of an angel, or so Henry VIII declares when he buys her
from her father as a member of the music, the Royal company of
minstrels, best grows up with in the decadent Tudor Court navigating
the ever-changing tide of royals and courtiers. Friends come and go
as cracked voices, politics, heartbreak, and death loom over even the
lowliest of musicians. Tom, her first and dearest friend is her only
constant but as Bess becomes too comfortable at court, she may find
that constancy has its limits.
Setup: 1523. Bess is
fourteen, and has begun to pay attention to the lives of those around
her. A case of mistaken identity brings her to the attention of Anne
Boleyn, who has a request. Craving excitement, Bess agrees to play a
part in Anne’s scheme, not thinking about the risks to her own
safety in meddling in the lives of her betters.
***
No mention was made in the
Music of my new airs and graces until, one afternoon at Richmond, Tom
made bold to ask, “When did you decide to become Anne Boleyn?”
I sighed. A hint of a breeze
rustled the canopy of deep green leaves above our heads, showing
patches of a perfect pale blue sky. I did not want to quarrel over
something as silly as the wearing of a ribbon, but his words, and the
glance accompanying them, nettled me. Though I was loath to gossip, I
did not want him to think badly of me. Tom was the soul of
discretion: her secrets, as well as mine, were safe with him.
“To please the Lady Anne?”
he said, incredulous. “Why?”
I squirmed, but there was no
avoiding a response. “Because she was kind and asked my help.”
“Jesu, Bess, they are all
kind within their means. Have you lost your senses?”
“I’m
not a fool!” I turned my back on him and stalked a few paces across
the grass. I had as a defense my wine-red skirts, worn this day for
the first time. I swished them around me, hoping I looked elegant
against the backdrop of the Thames.
Worn with my new gown was a
set of red-laced canvas stays, a proper adult corset with bones and a
carved wooden busk in front. It changed my silhouette completely,
giving me a fashionably flat front while pushing what breasts I
possessed right up under my chin. I might not be a lady, but I was
shaped like one.
Tom’s
voice trailed after me, and it sang not in praise of my gown, but in
derision of my folly. “Only a fool gets involved in their
intrigues. If the king
is angered, you’ve risked everything, and for what?” He folded
himself neatly on a rise overlooking the river, his green garments
blending with the grass. “Do you believe she or Percy would help
you if the king’s
wrath came upon your head? Do you believe they would think of you at
all?” There was an edge to his laughter.
“That won’t happen.” I
did not want it to happen.
He raised himself on one
elbow. “Who is trying to keep them apart?”
“The cardinal and the Lady
Anne’s father.”
“We already know the Boleyn
influence,” he said. “And in whose interest does the cardinal act
in all things?”
In the interest of the king.
A chill ran down my back. “She
asks nothing wrong.”
“Perhaps not, but you’re
the king’s creature, not the Lady Anne’s.”
Voices interrupted our
quarrel. A barge was coming in, mooring at the stairs nearby with a
great splashing and shouting. Tom heaved himself up, and we retreated
to a grove of trees overhanging the river, watching as Charles
Brandon landed with a large party.
“Why are you so determined
to do this?”
Brandon’s entourage made its
way up the path, and I left the sheltering trees for the sunlight.
“Because nothing ever happens to me.”
“Sweet God, Bess!” he
exploded, losing his temper. “Nothing ever happens to you? You’re
a child out of the bowels of Southwark, and look at the life you
have.” His outflung arm encompassed the palace and all its
surroundings. “The only future you had there was in the stews.”
I thought of the vile place
where his mother plied her trade and shivered again. My stays felt
too tight. “I’m not pretty enough for that.”
“Yes, you are, especially in
your new gown. And besides”—he
frowned at me for distracting him—“beauty
isn’t a requirement, as well you know.” He considered me
carefully, head cocked. “Perhaps not. You talk too much to be a
successful whore.
“But look at yourself.
You’re clothed, housed, fed. You’ve traveled and performed for
kings. What more could you want?” His eyes blazed, exasperated with
my mulishness.
“It isn’t enough.”
Karen
Heenan was born and raised in Philadelphia. She fell in love with
books and stories before she learned to read, and has wanted to write
for nearly as long. After far too many years in a cubicle, she set
herself free to follow her dreams – which include gardening,
sewing, traveling and, of course, lots of writing.
She
lives in Lansdowne, PA, not far from Philadelphia, with two cats and
a very patient husband.
